Back in 1995 I left the USA after the death of my younger brother. My plan was to visit the holiest places in Asia. I was a non-believer, but believed this pilgrimage would help Michael’s soul in eternity.
By late August I had reached in old Yunnan city of Lijiang in Southern China. My hotel room had a view of the Jade Snow Dragon Mountain farther up the valley. Most travelers visited the old stone city with its traditional Naxhi influences and then headed off to hike the Tiger Leaping Gorge on the Yangtze River.
I skipped the hike down the swollen gorge. It was rainy season and the footing was treacherous on the dirt paths.
Returning backpackers reveled each other with the legend of a lone Israeli hiker who fell from the trail and broke his leg. His cries for help were drowned out by the rushing rapids and he died of starvation within 20 feet of the trail. The story sounded like a myth, since the nationality, sex, age, and year changed with each telling.
Still I refused many offers from passing tourists to join their trek.
I was happy in Lijiang and became friendly with two Frenchmen laying fiber optic cables between Lijiang and Dali, another tourist destination to the south. They asked why I was here. I explained how my younger brother had died of AIDS. We drank beer to Michael’s memory. They said that they had been working on the project for a half-year without a break.
I suggested a day’s holiday.
“And go where?” Jacques had traveled most of the roads of Sichuan.
“Chengdu is twelve hours away.” Yves had recently driven back and forth to pick up a transformer. “The roads through the mountains were scary and the food is the same as here.”
“My guide book says there is a ski slope on the Snow Jade Dragon Mountain, but none of the locals know anything about it.”
“Pas vrai? Le ski ici?” Yves laughed in my face.
“Maybe they have a chalet with fondue.”
“Fondue. Je reve du fondu,” Jacques whimpered with an often dreamed desire. “Could it be possible?”
“Only one way to find out. We can drive there.”
“Non, let’s bicycle.” Each of us had rented a bike to travel around Lijiang. It was a fairly flat town.
“On Sunday?”
‘Pour-quoi pas?” Yves and Jacques had off both days of the weekend.
“Weather permitting.” The Snow Jade Dragon Mountain related to the Himalayas. Storms brewed in the high peaks at all times of the year, but Sunday morning the clouds had cleared on the summit and the three of us met for a quick breakfast of rice and eggs.
“On y va.”
Yves was very fit and was soon out of sight, while Jacques and I pedaled leisurely up the gradually ascending road with the wind in our faces.
The Snow Jade Dragon Mountain gleamed in the sun. We reached the top of the pass in three hours. At the base of the mountain a badly weathered billboard announced our arrival at the ski slope, which was actually was a chute for toboggans. Skiing in Yunnan had been a lie, but that came as no surprise, since the Chinese adapted many western trends to their culture without shame.
Yves waited at a restaurant serving rice and noodles in a chicken broth. The Chinese tourists happily slurped at the warm food. Jacques oared noodles from the bowl to his mouth.
“So much for the Jean-Claude Killy ski resort.”
“At least they have beer.” Yves had built up a good thirst after the long bike ride.
After several beers the Frenchmen and I descended on dirt trails through ancient villages and our conversation turned to food.
“The food here is better than most of China,” I said, but after a month’s stay in Lijiang I had punched two extra holes in my belt.
“I am starving’t on noodles and rice.” Jacques came from Nice and sighed, “I am dying for bouillabaisse and a bottle of vin blanc.”
Yves countered by extolling the oysters of his native Normandy, while I praised Lobster Newburg from Boston’s Durgin Park.
“Oysters, bouillabaisse, Lobster Newburg.” Jacques spat on the ground. “China has none of that.”
“They don’t even have simple foods like a baguette and cheese.” Yves licked at his lips with a dry tongue.
“There’s no cheese in China or baguettes, but there is a pizza shop in Kathmandu.”
“Kathmandu? That is a thousand miles away.” Jacques frowned at this choice. “We will not be going that way.”
“But I will and I’ll write to tell you all about it, because there is no better food in the world than pizza. My younger brother and I ate pizza at Villa Rosa in Wollaston once a month. I hoped that they served it on the other side of life.
“Peut-etre.” Yves wasn’t a true believer in pizza, but Jacques said, “J’adore le pizza.”
“Moi aussi.”
A month later I bid fare-well to the Frenchmen. They were stuck in Lijiang for another half-year.
“Write us about the pizza. We will be waiting.” Yves wished me well.
“Better yet, mail us one. Stall pizza can’t be any worse than noodles.” Jacques was serious and gave me $20.
A day later I traveled north to Chengdu, where I caught a flight to Tibet.
I stayed in Lhasa two months.
Everyday I set fire to aromatic fir branches and circled the Jokhang Temple every day counter-clockwise and clockwise. I taught English to rinoches or reincarnated monks and workers. I told them about my dead brother. They graciously offered to pray for Michael. I wrote a letter to the Frenchman telling them that the food in Lhasa was even worst than that of Lijiang.
“Burnt hairy yak meat and rancid butter tea loaded with salt. Next week I’m heading to Kathmandu for pizza.” My visa for China terminated in seven days.
I hitchhiked on the Sino-Nepal Friendship Highway across the bone-dry plateau to the Himalayas. A tourist van picked me up in Gyantze. The highway wound along the Bum-Chu River. The only signs of civilization were the Chinese checkpoints. After Tingri the road climbed 16,900 feet to the Yakrushong La. The snowy peaks stretched from east to west without a break. The pass was higher than any mountain in Europe. It was almost impossible to breathe.
The driver stopped at a caravansary.
Noodles and broth.
The inn’s walls were carpeted by fat flies. I ate nothing. Even the beer looked dangerous.
That evening we arrived at the border of Nepal and booked a cheap room in a cheap hotel in Zhamgnmu. The filthy dining room served rice and noodles. I drank beer from the bottle.
In the morning caught a mini-van bound for Kathmandu. I refused all food on the road. Pizza was on my mind. We reached Nepal’s capitol within five hours. I checked into the Yeti Hotel. The cheapest room was $20. I asked about pizza. The desk clerk gave me directions to the restaurant and a rickshaw conveyed me to Fire and Ice located in a new building close to the Royal Palace. The clientele was divided between rich Nepalis and homesick westerners. I ordered a small l’Americano with pepperoni and a large bottle of Kingfisher beer. The waiter brought a glass filled with ice. Ice could be deadly, but I had survived yak meat in Tibet.
A half hour later the pizza came with a knife and fork.
I stared at the plate for several seconds. The pizza looked nothing like the pie from the Villa Rosa.
“Is there anything wrong, sir?” The waiter must have seen my expression of disappointment on the faces of other pizza lovers.
“Nothing at all.”
The pizza was nan covered with clouts of goat Nepali cheese topped by a thick ketchup sauce. The pepperoni sweated on the heated pizza. I lowered my head to the plate. It smelled like pizza and I picked up a piece. My first bite told the truth. This was Nepal and there wasn’t any better pizza within several thousand miles. I took a bite.
“How do you like the pizza, sir?” asked the waiter.
“It’s the best this side of the Himalayas.” I ate every crumb. My younger brother must have been laughing from the other side and I asked the waiter, “Can I have two to go and packed them really well.”
“Yes, sir.”
I got to the Kathmandu Post Office ten minutes before closing.
The clerk secured the pizzas in a shipping box and I wrote the Frenchmen, “I love pizza.”
And the pizza in Kathmandu certainly tasted better than yak meat, then again anything tasted good when you’re hungry.
Three days later I was stricken with giardia. My intestines had been poisoned by bacteria. The source of infection couldn’t have been the pizza and I blamed the ice for the beer.
It was the usual suspect in the Orient.
For a week I suffered from diarrhea, abdominal cramps, nausea, loss of appetite, passage of gas from more than one orifice, and horrible weakness. My planned trip to Annapurna was postponed by the illness. The hotel staff was very helpful. They dealt with giardia on a daily basis and knew of one cure.
Tea and toast for seven days.
Once I was better, I put myself on the scales at the hotel.
175 pounds.
I had lost nearly fifteen pounds.
And my first real meal was pizza l’Americano at the Fire and Ice.
Plus three Kingfisher beers.
No ice.
Nothing was better than pizza and my younger brother, Michael, knew that too.
Both in this life and the Here-After.
